gratitude
by Xiao Leonhart
Summary: Short fic, sequel to 'butterfly', set in Neo-Midgar. They say the greatest honour a student can pay his teacher is to surpass him. Tonight, Johann Frost will learn a lesson in gratitude that could cost him his life. *finished*


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gratitude

xiao leonhart 

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A loosely-linked sequel to "butterfly". They say the greatest honour a student can pay his teacher is to surpass him. But when you've taught everything you know, what do you have to fall back on? Tonight, Johann Frost's most talented student has become his most dangerous enemy.

You're bound to lose the game

There's no-one else to blame

You play so safe and you're not risking enough

You're doomed to be undone

I swear I'll be the one to bring you down

-Garbage, "Untouchable"

Rain, and darkness

Frost stood motionless, head sunk on his chest, eyes half-closed. His greying brown hair clung damply to the contours of his face. His black clothes and tanned, weather-beaten skin blended into the darkness like a deeper shadow. Driving rain beat against his face, running in rivulets through the folds in his jacket, dripping from the barrels of his pistols. Water streamed from his hair and down his lined cheeks like tears shed for some nameless grief.

He didn't move.

With the ease of long practise he concentrated, gradually phasing out the splash of rain on concrete and the distant hum of traffic. Eyes closed, he listened. For the brush of fabric, or a careless footfall. For-

A soft click.

His eyes snapped open. He hadn't seemed alert or watchful, standing in silence in the rain, but now he was moving with astonishing speed and agility. The first bullet splintered brick and mortar a metre from his head, but he was already gone, retreating into the shadowed mouth of an alley.

Frost knew he wouldn't stand a chance in an open firefight. He was still in excellent shape, but he was older, slower. Liable to make mistakes his opponent would take advantage of. His age and experience had once made him the most dangerous man on the streets of this godforsaken city. Now they made him expendable.

The night sky was clouded. No stars. The air was cold and heavy with smog. The rain had slowed to a mere drizzle, but the icy wind still slammed it into his face like a hammer. 

What a fucking horrible night to die.

Because Frost would die, if he didn't run. The man had come here to kill him. He hadn't been seen in these parts for several years, and he never did anything without a purpose. Their meeting tonight had been no accident. The other man had watched, and asked, and waited for a time when he'd be alone. Biding his time with a cold patience Frost knew only too well.

After all, his opponent had learned it from him.

Frost stopped. Somehow he'd lost count of the turnings. He scanned the walls, heart pounding in his chest. The old graffiti and gang tags he remembered were gone. All around him were corners and identical alleyways and featureless, dirty brick walls.

He was lost, fucking lost in his own city.

But these streets weren't his home anymore. He'd given that up when he exchanged them for money, luxury, security. After the fall of Shinra and the destruction of Midgar, the world had gone to hell. And the survivors were scared. Everything they'd taken for granted was gone. As much as they claimed to hate and fear Shinra, the company had left a gap that needed to be filled.

And that was why Frost had joined Kobayashi Energy, Inc.

Jiro Kobayashi was a small, middle-aged Wutainese man with big plans. He was intelligent, if slightly naive, rich and dedicated to helping the homeless, starving people who were all that was left of the once-proud city. Most of his execs, however, ignored his idealistic vision of a brave new Midgar, concentrating on the fact that he had the money to make it happen. By the time Frost had joined the company Kobayashi was already building his empire, gathering land, resources and public acclaim. But behind the scenes, Kobayashi Inc was living up to its reputation as "the new Shinra".

Eight years after the Meteor scare, Frost was a high-up in the Security division. He organised the guards, ran diagnostic checks on security programs, and pulled in three times the money he used to make in a year- legally, this time. And every so often, when a rebel group started making trouble or a smaller company tried to screw them over on a business deal, Frost found his wetwork skills put to good use.

Before Meteor, Frost had been a force to be reckoned with, the most feared single agent in the slums. And he'd imparted his hard-won knowledge to a chosen few. Since he'd had the might of Kobayashi covering his back he'd grown sloppy, let his skills slide a little. But the man hunting him tonight had been walking a thin line between life and death since he was born, and the recent years had been the hardest yet for him. He was younger, and faster. He knew everything Frost knew, and more.

Frost started running again.

Still moving, he reached into his trenchcoat for his PHS. His hand came up empty. He slowed, running his hands across the pockets of his jacket, a sick dread gripping him by the throat. The phone was gone. He was lost, alone, and had a gun-slinging madman on his heels. No time to stop and listen again. Taking a direction at random, Frost sprinted down another alley. Were the footsteps behind him real or imagined? He forced another burst of speed, putting his head down.

Suddenly he stopped. Dead end.

The walls were high, smooth brick on three sides. A glass window was set into the side of what looked like an old warehouse, but that would just be walking into a trap. There was cover around here, though. He relaxed, centring himself. A stack of crates near a big metal dumpster, an identical one on the other side of the alley, and a small side lane to the left of it, ending in a heavy locked door. Still, three places where Frost might be hiding, and in facing two, the other man would have to turn his back on one.

He smiled slightly. This night would not end with his death. He still had a few more cards to play.

Moving with a silent speed so practised it was instinctive, Frost dislodged a few of the boxes near the first dumpster, shucking his jacket and draping it over one of the crates to give the illusion of a dark figure crouched in the safety of the shadows. He then ducked behind the second dumpster, his eyes sliding closed again.

Footsteps, quiet and unhurried, sounded from the direction of the open alley mouth. He tensed, trying to keep from breathing too hard. The skill of listening was a bonus to have when you were hunting a mark, but a dangerous thing to have used against you. Particularly when your opponent had honed it to such a level.

He turned his head slowly. The rain had all but stopped, but it was still dark, still quiet. Good. With an opponent like this one, Frost wasn't going to trust his hearing alone. He looked out from behind the dumpster, the mouth of the alley clearly visible from his position.

And so was the man walking casually out of the shadows.

He who had once been lean was now thin, but there was no mistaking the power in his spare frame. Every movement gave the impression of a coiled spring, potential power needing only a second to be unleashed. 

He wore a threadbare blue suit.

His shades sat in their customary position on top of his head, their lenses spattered with water. His hair was soaked against his head, stray tendrils of rain-darkened crimson plastered against scarred cheeks. Faintly luminous blue-green eyes burned hot with unfamiliar Mako fire. And something else, something darker. Frost could see the cold patience in the pale, still-handsome face, patience he'd taught when Reno Takeda was a hotheaded teenager. But the instinctive need for blood- he'd learned that on his own.

In one hand dangled a PHS Frost recognised as his own. How the _hell_ did the little bastard manage that? Reno, or one of his many contacts, had picked his fucking pocket, probably when he'd sat outside in that nice little café earlier that afternoon.

How long had Takeda planned this for?

He held a weapon in his other hand. Not, as Frost had expected, his infamous electric nightstick. Not even the long-barrelled Glock he'd used in his Turk days. Reno was idly swinging the snub-nosed .40 Beretta Frost had given him seventeen years ago, when they were caught in a tight spot and had to shoot their way out. The first time he'd noticed Reno's talents, and offered to teach him a thing or two. Killing him with his own gun probably appealed to Takeda's twisted sense of irony.

Frost knew he still had his strength, he still had his agility, he still knew how to play the game. But faced with this ghost from the past, he'd lost his nerve.

He was finished.

"Fro-st" Reno sing-songed the word, drawing his name out into a taunt. "Remember me, pal?" He slipped the PHS into the pocket of his suit jacket, drawing a cylindrical black object. A flashlight.

Frost drew back slightly behind the dumpster, still not wanting to take his eyes off Takeda. The shadows were no refuge anymore, and if the bright beam hit his eyes he'd be blinded for a few, crucial seconds. His only hope was that Reno would notice the jacket behind the crates. 

Otherwise, the tables were fast turning against Johann Frost.

Reno smiled, lifting the PHS again. "You want this, don't you? You need your friends to cover your ass." He tossed it high into the air, firing upwards in the same lightning motion. It hit the ground as a tangle of wires and broken plastic, shot through the centre. "Too bad."

God, he was fast.

"Why'd you do it, huh Frost, you double-crossing little fuck?" He kicked out at a few loose stones, a thin smile twisting his lips. "Why'd you have to stab me in the back? Shinra was dead and Midgar was dead and everything I had was dead. And you- like the mother fucker that you are- you took _advantage_ of it." He spat contemptuously on the ground, running the flashlight beam along the grimy brick walls. "You made sure any company who mighta had a chance was bribed or blackmailed until they didn't know what hit them. You helped put troops on the streets again. You organised the raid on Greywolf's bar _knowing_ what you'd find- because he used to be your friend." He sighed. "When I was a Turk, I watched out for my friends. But you only watch out for yourself." He reached into his pockets again, holstering his gun. "Better watch yourself now, Frost. You're the only one left who cares."

Three grenades in his hands.

Reno pulled the pin and threw, the only sound for a few seconds the bounce of metal on concrete. Crouched behind the dumpster, Frost located the sound- the alcove of the doorway. He blocked his ears as a roar of sound and flash of bright fire echoed throughout the small space. Easily audible from the houses and flats around them, but the ordinary people would be too smart to call in the police. After all, calls could be traced, and no-one was willing to take the chance of making themselves a powerful enemy.

Teeth bared in a smile, the red-haired man focused on the huge metal container Frost sheltered behind. His gaze travelled to the dumpster on the opposite side, then to the pile of crates. Frost could almost hear him thinking- mistake, bluff or double-bluff?

Reno made a decision. Standing just far enough down the alley to block Frost's exit and still be covered by the slight curve of the walls, he drew his Beretta and frowned in concentration. Listening.

But his ears would still be ringing slightly from the noise of the blast. Reno's senses would be dulled, but he might not know that. And the heavy door to Frost's left had buckled under the force of the explosion.

Frost grinned to himself. He hadn't lost his touch, after all.

He launched himself from his hiding place, gaze fixed on the door. He almost felt Reno's surprise, his formidable reflexes snapping into action as bullets screamed through the air after him. But Frost was in cover by this time, almost through the door. Almost out of this nightmare.

But the only way to free himself would be to kill Reno Takeda.

The ex-Turk's feet pounded hard against the pavement as he gave up any attempt at stealth. The footsteps stopped, and Frost heard the bounce of metal on concrete.

Shit, the grenades-

Frost leapt through the door, rolling and coming up with guns ready. He was in the kitchen of a ground-floor apartment. Without looking around, he dived behind the heavy bench as another explosion shattered the silence, incinerating most of the kitchen and leaving flaming debris behind. A scream from up the hall. Frost cocked his guns, seeing movement down the alley. Reno was cautiously moving forward, ready to finish him off.

That's what you think, Takeda.

Reno was silhouetted against the flames. He was close to the wall, behind the doorframe, but Frost was at exactly the right angle to hit him. It was the perfect shot. Frost smiled. He wouldn't even see it coming.

He lined up. Reno looked younger in the soft flickering light, the unnatural burn of his Mako eyes less obvious. His hair had come loose from the tie that held it. It was like looking back in time.

He fired.

He missed.

Frost stared at the hand holding the Magnum in stunned disbelief. A week ago he'd shot a man through the side window of a moving car and thought nothing of it. Takeda was motionless against a wall ten metres away and Frost had missed him completely. What the hell had happened?

Of course, Reno wasn't waiting around for Frost to try again. He backed off fast, apparently reaching for another grenade. Frost could only duck behind the bench again, still stunned at his own incompetence.

A long-buried memory suddenly surfaced, startling in its clarity. Frost and Takeda and a few others, holed up in someone's flat while DeathHeads roamed the streets below, ready to pick them off. But they'd got bored with that after a while, and started shooting at the windows, hoping to kill them or drive them out of cover.

Takeda eventually came up with the desperate but workable plan of dropping from the window onto the roof of the garage and picking them off from safety, while Yamada bombed them from above with Molotov cocktails and anything else he could get his hands on. Everyone was out except Yamada and Frost, who was rounding up the last of the ammo clips for later. Suddenly Takeda started screaming "get away from the window" at the top of his voice. Turns out more DeathHeads had pulled up out front with a fucking Mako launcher, of all things, and were ready to finish them off.

Frost almost made it out in time. Almost. The last thing he remembered was yelling at Yamada to get a move on, and then he was waking up in a pile of garbage bags and assorted junk with blackened clothes and a killer headache. The shouts and gunfire had stopped. After a while he managed to kick his way out and through the remains of the building, looking for Takeda or whoever was left.

Reno and the others had picked off the remaining DeathHeads without much trouble, then gone looking for him. Turns out they'd found the remains of Yamada, which wasn't much, and assumed Frost had gone the same way. Unsurprisingly, the cops hadn't showed up yet. Takeda was around the side of the house with Bennett, pushing aside a slab of wall to search the debris underneath. Reno saw him, blinked for a moment and then grinned at him like an idiot. Sure, the first thing he said was "What took you so long?" but Frost wasn't fooled.

On the streets, people didn't smile much. Maybe when they'd outmanoeuvred an opponent, or were collecting their payment for a job, sure. But not like this.

Reno had grown older and smiled less. Times were hard. It was Frost who suggested he leave for Shinra, maybe join SOLDIER. Takeda's accuracy and skill had continued to improve, and Frost had no doubt the nineteen-year-old would be able to make it to the top. He thought about it for a while, but he did leave, taking only the Beretta, his knife and a change of clothes. Takeda had never formally thanked him, it wasn't his style. Then again, he hadn't needed to.

All of this passed through Frost's mind in a flash. Along with a realisation. Deep in his heart, he didn't want to kill Takeda.

Reno, on the other hand, had no such reservations. 

Frost had been right all along- if he tried to escape, Reno would shoot him down with no regrets. And if he stayed and hid, he would die. No-one was coming to bail him out or back him up. This time it was up to him.

Metal bounced on stone as the last grenade flew towards him.

Two choices, Johann. Prey or predator.

With speed and strength born of sheer desperation he snatched the quietly ticking sphere out of the air and hurled it back.

It exploded in mid-air, the shockwave almost knocking Frost off his feet. But he wasn't finished, not yet. Flying shrapnel had opened a long, deep gash along his hairline. He barely noticed. He flattened himself against the blackened wall for a moment until the flames died down, kicking off the edge of the doorframe to give himself an added boost of speed. He drew his H&Ks and came out firing, seeing a flash of blue as Takeda retreated. Only it wasn't Takeda, no. Just another nameless, anonymous target, running for his worthless life. Easy money, if the man died, but there was no more at stake than that. No more than that.

His still-keen peripheral vision, set on high beam as he burst out of the alley, rewarded him with a flash of movement from behind the furthest dumpster. A stream of blood trickled unnoticed down his face, his once-immaculate suit blackened and torn. He didn't care. He couldn't feel the icy touch of the rain, or the ache in his muscles. He was back in his element, moving like he used to, poised and confident on the streets of his city. He heard the click of Takeda's Beretta running empty. Perfect. He forced on more speed, bullets flaking paint and chips of metal from the battered dumpster, a wolfish smile twisting his features as he approached the crates. Mako eyes, bright in the darkness, gave him away. Frost leapt, fingers on the triggers-

A flare of brilliant pain froze him in mid-stride, his fists clenching convulsively around the butts of his weapons, his back arching and muscles contracting under the shock. He was thrown forwards from the crates and landed hard, wondering distractedly what the hell had just hit him.

Reno vaulted easily over the crates, electric nightstick in hand set at maximum power, bright aquamarine eyes narrowed to calculating slits. He kicked the H&Ks from Frost's weakened grip. Frost heard the metallic rattle as they skimmed along the pitted concrete and lunged for the gun, only to be brought up short by the sharp press of the nightstick into his neck. He saw Reno's face, coldly expressionless as he hit the fire button. Then his vision blurred as the shock hit. He blacked out, released for a few merciful moments, only to be dragged back from the brink of unconsciousness by a kick to the ribs that rolled him onto his back. He could see the gun. Only a few metres away, but it may as well have been a mile. He was finished. He knew it, but his conscious mind refused to believe it. He tried to push himself up, only to be left gasping as his tortured muscles cramped. He couldn't move. 

Takeda watched, impassive, as he loaded another clip into the Beretta. Frost's heart was still pounding in his ears after the shock, his breath coming in short gasps. The rain was falling heavier now, soaking his expensive shirt. He focused with difficulty on the stout barrel of the Beretta. Takeda was carefully checking it over, making him sweat. Making him wait. He knew Frost wasn't a threat any more. Frost liked to think that he had been, for a little while.

A Wutainese girlfriend of his had once told him that according to her tradition, the greatest honour a martial arts student could pay his teacher was to surpass him in skill. Defeating your teacher in battle was a sort of appreciation of everything he'd done for you, showing him that in the end, it had all been worthwhile. 

The Wutainese were pretty fucking strange sometimes.

Frost looked up at Reno, blood from the gash on his forehead stinging his eyes. "That what this is, Takeda?" he said, his voice smoke-roughened and soft. "Gratitude?"

Reno shrugged, cocking the old Beretta. "Think what you like."

He fired. 

He didn't miss.

(~*~)

Moonlight glimmered around the edges of the clouds, but the rain continued to beat on the cracked, dirty concrete that paved the nameless back alley.

Frost still smiled faintly, his left eye holding Reno's gaze. The right was a bloody, sightless hollow, spilling crimson tears down the side of his misshapen face.

The man's coat lay draped over one of the crates, water dripping unheeded from the sleeves. Reno examined it. Dirty, torn and soaked. Not good for much now.

He absently holstered his nightstick and looked down on the man who had, years ago, been his friend. Reno probably still owed his life to him several times over. Then again, he'd been indebted to Greywolf, too. The score was settled.

He looked away. His life had not been easy. He'd seen and done things out of necessity that left others scarred for life. But for some reason he found Frost's faint, sightless smile vaguely disconcerting. His final words whispered in his ears.

Reno dropped the rain-sodden jacket over Frost's face and stood for a moment in silence, hands in pockets, staring at nothing. He tilted his face upwards, eyes closed, finding strange comfort in the beat of heavy raindrops against his skin.

A breath of wind stirred his hair. He shivered slightly, turned and walked away.

The rainwater that flowed along the pavement carried a faint crimson tint that was soon lost as it poured into the gutter. They said blood was thicker than water, but on the streets it was all the same.

~end~

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AN: You can see I like Reno, can't you. Heh. I really do appreciate reviews, so please take the time to write me a comment *looks at you with puppy-dog eyes* I have not forgotten about All Stories part 2, or Resonances for that matter, but I've been busy with other stuff. It will happen. *scuffs the floor* Eventually.

-Xiao


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